The breakfast-hour was drawing to its end, and the very last straggler sat alone at the ward-room table. Presently an officer of the mother-ship, passing through, called to the lingering group of submarine officers.
The first of the flotilla to return.
"The X-4 is coming up the bay, and the X-12 has been reported from signal station."
The news was received with a little hum of friendly interest. "Wonder what Ned will have to say for himself this time." "Must have struck pretty good weather." "Bet you John has been looking for another chance at that Hun of his."
The appearance of the crew.
The talk drifted away into other channels. A little time passed. Then suddenly a door opened, and, one after the other, entered the three officers of the first home-coming submarine. They were clad in various ancient uniforms which might have been worn by an apprentice lad in a garage: old gray flannel shirts, and stout grease-stained shoes; several days had passed since their faces had felt a razor, and all were a little pale from their cruise. But the liveliest of keen eyes burned in each resolute young face, eyes smiling and glad.
A friendly hullabaloo broke forth. Chairs scraped, one fell with a crash.
"Hello, boys!"
"Hi, Ned!"
"For the love of Pete, Joe, shave off those whiskers of yours; they make you look like Trotzky."